“Keep those fucking knees up.”
The crop landed on my fleshy buttock once again, where the red lines were already vividly striping my pale flesh.
Her hand, tightly, mercilessly holding on to the lunge rope, connected to the central O ring of my collar. Her collar, the one she’d kindly bestowed just a couple of months earlier as the main Christmas present for her best girl.
Now, I was her prize filly, dancing to her tune in the crisp air, naked to the sky and sunshine and crowds, all but for the various straps and harnesses that presented me as her main pony girl.
Oh yes, the crowds. There was no forgetting them. Row upon row of curious persons, all unknown, all judging, critiquing and anonymous yet here to witness my sheer terror and humiliation.
I didn’t know who would be awarded rosettes at the end, I just knew if I didn’t win my Mistress any, I would be in for a whipping that would draw blood, sweat and tears. She’d vehemently promised that back in the yard, as I was walked out from the stable this morning.
It hadn’t helped my nerves any to be shackled to the brick wall in that stable all night, with just the terror of the next day for company in my already over active imagination. My mind had run at a million miles an hour. I hadn’t slept a wink.
Now here I was, being forced to dance merrily in pretty little circles, to the tune of her harsh and exasperated voice. I wasn’t doing it well enough. My knees weren’t high enough. The pony boys were stronger, they had the endurance to last longer at this game. It’s all too much. Still, she pushed me on.
I force my eyes to look forwards. Never down. No, not down at my feet. That’s wrong. I should be proud to be led like this, proud to be seen by all the crowd, happy that I can be of some use to her. Besides I know the instant I let my eyes drop, the crop will be back to pattern my flesh with ever deeper welts.
The thought makes me miss a step in my constant circle that is getting faster and faster.
That one landed on the backs of my thighs. She’d done that deliberately. Utter bitch. No, mustn’t think like that. It’s for my own good, it’s for my own good…
Faster and faster. Knees high with every prancing step. Eyes ahead. Head up. Back straight and tits jutting forwards. Nipples hard, with the motion bouncing my already heavy tits this way and that with every jump.
Nipples pierced with thick metal O rings, durable for a pony girl shackling; and chains trigger clipped to each ring. Chains leading up to the cheek straps that form part of the head harness: bit gag between my hard clenched teeth, black leather ears atop my head and my long hair braided and brought up as a practical mane.
No blinkers: she wants me to see everything. Those people looking, she enjoys the red flashing up my chest and throat, spreading fast across my cheeks, deepening with the wolf-whistles and cat calls, the instructions callously called out from jealous women, the leering suggestions from the heavy set, beer soaked men, not even hiding their thick cocks clenched in their fists, my prancing setting the beat for their personal fuck show.
A wide leather strap is clipped to the collar’s central O ring as well as the lunge lead. It travels between my ringed breasts and lays flush against my tummy, travelling between my legs, rubbing against my straining clit and pulsing cunt to hold in the butt plug behind and connect tightly once more to the collar behind my neck.
Butt plug fed through the hole in the strap before it was inserted into me; then fully inflated by removable pump & valve inside my tight arse. I can feel the barely lubed rubber punishing my insides with each jump and trot; the leather strap keeping it tightly inside. It has nowhere to go but deeper within. I feel like I will burst.
In her sadistic way she has kept my cunt empty; I know she enjoys the fact it throbs the entire time, wishing for her tongue, wishing for her face, wishing…
You’ll just have to earn it then, won’t you bitch. I can hear her words within my head. She’s right, of course. She’s always right.
I trot faster. Circles. High knees. Aching. Wanting. I feel like I might cum at any moment. Eyes feasting on my body. No cumming allowed She’d probably sell me to another, not before the worst whipping ever.
Pure torture. Pure agony. Pure bliss.
Her pony girl.
Eventually it stops. She leads me to her, where she stands at the centre of the well trodden circle of grass.
“You had better hope that was enough, my little bitch…”
A yank on the rope, her lips on mine, brutally and carelessly ravaging my gagged mouth. I can only whimper in response.
I won second place. I can’t bring myself to tell you what she did with the rosette. What I can say is that it will be even worse the next time. Second isn’t good enough, apparently.
written as part of Fetish Friday